The Pilgrim

The travel-weary pilgrim trudged

Onward toward his goal--

Hoping to find peace and comfort

For his questioning soul.

 

Uphill and downhill, through forests and fields,

Step by step he plodded

Upon the blistering path. While passing

Fellow pilgrims he nodded.

 

Beating down upon him the sun--

Merciless, piercing, terrible--

Made each step an agonizing

Ordeal--harsh and unbearable.

 

A restful night at a hostel or shelter

Was refuge from the pain

Of hours and hours of walking

Through sweltering heat or rain.

 

Some days were kinder--the sun was gentle,

The breeze was soft and cool.

He'd stop and gaze at the blue sky above him

And wash his feet in a pool.

 

But usually hungry and thirsty he journeyed,

Hoping not to find

That after hours of walking and stumbling

He'd left something behind.

 

Loosening the cutting strap of his backpack

And giving his dry lips a lick,

He carefully wiped his dripping brow

And clutched his walking stick.

 

If his pilgrimage didn't bring him

Closer to God, it would

At least bring him closer to himself,

And that alone would be good.

(10-21-14)